


Fortunate Son

by Raspberry_Blond



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 14:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raspberry_Blond/pseuds/Raspberry_Blond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garak believes in coincidences. Coincidences happen every day. Lucky breaks, though? Not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortunate Son

**Author's Note:**

> In "Improbable Cause," I wondered just how Garak spotted the Flaxian as Odo surmised. This is set around the events of that episode and those of "The Die is Cast," but are more missing scene/moments than actual counterparts to what we saw in those (amazing!) episodes. It is pre-slash, but I definitely wrote this with the idea of a spark of attraction between Garak and Bashir. I mean, it's impossible to say how many G/B fans were born after the airlock scene in "Improbable Cause." :D

Garak nearly choked on his rokassa juice when he caught a glimpse of a wide silver band encircling his lunch companion’s wrist.

It looked very much like one of those ridiculous Bajoran ‘intent’ bracelets – an item male Bajorans typically wore to announce their plan to wed, and a rather dull counterpart to the betrothal bracelet worn by Bajoran women. Taking note of the band, Garak idly wondered if he and the entire station had been mistaken about the depth of young Dr. Julian Bashir’s relationship with Quark’s newest vapid dabo girl.  
  
On closer, cursory inspection, however, Garak realized that the circlet was much too wide and plain for the typical intent bracelet, nor did it have the intricate inscription of one of the Prophets’ blessings as most did. Still, it was curious: The doctor was not one for external adornment, rather plain in his tastes, oddly, given his somewhat exotic appearance and love of alien cultures. To wear such a striking piece of jewelry was really not his style.  
  
Garak looked up at last to find a pair of questioning eyes watching him.  
  
“Is there something wrong?”  
  
“I was just admiring this.” Garak delicately tapped the doctor’s wrist with the edge of his fingernail. “Quite unusual.”  
  
“Oh, yes.” Julian grinned sheepishly, tugging his sleeve down a bit. “Fara gave it to me after that runabout accident last week. It’s a Golian tryl manacle. It’s supposed to bring good luck.”  
  
Ah. "Fara." Indeed.

Garak upended his glass, the juice flowing smoothly down his throat now. Yes, _t_ _hat_ was the name that had been flitting around the station in tandem with the good doctor’s. Garak had only seen the fetching young Golian woman once before – when she’d nonchalantly bid for and won the space beside his shop that he'd been negotiating the purchase of for months. After that debacle, there had not been time, or desire either, to get acquainted with his newest ‘neighbor.’ Garak was quite sure the feeling was mutual.  
  
“How interesting, Doctor. And has it?” He smiled over the rim of his glass at the blushing young man. “Brought good luck, that is?”  
  
“Actually, yes, it has.” Julian brightened. “The first night I wore it, the Commander was having one of his dinners for the senior staff, and for the first time ever, he did not fix beets.”  
  
“You dislike beets?”

That revelation came as something of a surprise. In their years of lunches, Garak had seen the young doctor pile all sorts of foods onto his plate – some of it still moving, in fact. He didn’t think Julian Bashir’s adventurous palate would reject something as mundane as a Terran vegetable.  
  
“Loathe them.” Bashir made a distressed face that Garak found charming. “But I always feel rather obligated to taste them, because the Commander goes through so much trouble . . . but not that night! Sisko said that he just hadn’t felt in the mood to make them. Also, I have been beating the pants off Miles at darts lately.”  
  
Garak blinked. The image of the station's chief of operations in nothing but his undergarments was hardly an inspiring one and very nearly put him off his food.  
  
“But is that truly luck, Doctor? I’ve often heard you say that your skill at that particular game rather matches Mr. O’Brien’s. Might you just be experiencing a higher percentage of victories than usual?”  
  
“I don’t think so, Garak. Miles was on one of his infamous streaks. I could stand two inches in front of the dart board and he’d still beat me.” Julian stirred his tea. “And, of course, I’ve not injured myself on any runabouts lately. Of course, I haven’t been _on_ any since the incident.”  
  
Garak's eyes went discreetly to the faint white line right below the doctor's hairline - a fading reminder of the malfunction that had nearly cost a Starfleet crewman her life and had injured the doctor as he'd returned from Kalaro III after administering much-needed inoculations to a Federation colony.  
  
"Well then, for that alone this is worth its weight in ..." Garak eyed the trinket critically "... whatever material it was forged out of."  
  
"I can't pronounce the metal. Fara says it's only found on Golus. She's going to be selling these and other Golian charms in her new shop." Julian removed the bangle and turned it over in his hand. "It's a little heavy and chafes a bit. I suppose I'll get used to it."  
  
He grinned suddenly at his companion. "I suppose there aren't any good-luck charms to be found on Cardassia?"  
  
"On the contrary, there are. I, myself, had several in my own collection."  
  
"Really?" Julian leaned forward, intrigued. "And did you have an upswing of fortune whenever you wore one?"  
  
"Well, that entirely depended entirely on whether I had it set to 'stun' or to 'kill.'" Garak smiled at Julian's chuckle. "I can honestly say _my_ lucky charms never let me down."  
  
"I can imagine."  
  
"Actually, Doctor, I recant. I _am_ joking. I do believe I once mentioned to you that Cardassians don't believe in luck." Garak again went for his drink. "We do, however, believe in skill, in strength, in ensuring that the odds of any given situation skews to our favor."  
  
"So the idea of chance is ...?"  
  
"Just that. An idea. And a rather bad one, at that."  
  
Julian shook his head. "Come on, Garak. Surely, at least once or twice in your colorful career there have been dire situations you survived just by the skin of your teeth."  
  
"The skin of my ..." Garak looked amused. "You Humans _do_ have rather inventive maxims."  
  
"You seriously expect me to believe that you've never experienced an occurrence that could only be owed to sheer luck?" asked Julian. "Something that neither strength _nor_ skill could have in any way impacted?"  
  
"I am sorry to disappoint you, Doctor, but no. In my _colorful_ _career_ , as you put it, any uncomfortable or unfortunate circumstance I found myself in and managed to extricate myself from was owing to wit, skill and cunning. Whenever I found myself facing situations impervious to the aforementioned, I had to bow to the inevitable."  
  
"Situations such as ...?"  
  
"My exile, of course." Garak gave a brittle smile. "There is no amount of daring or skillful maneuvering that I can exert that will triumph over that. And _luck_ cannot even enter the conversation."  
  
The doctor frowned and seemed about to respond when his communications badge twittered.  
  
"Infirmary to Bashir."  
  
He quickly hit the badge, his frown deepening. "Bashir here. What is it, Jabara?"  
  
"Doctor, Lieutenant Aranson came in complaining of abdominal distress. Preliminary scans indicate it may be acute appendicitis."  
  
"Acknowledged. Scan the entire abdominal cavity and prep him for surgery. I'm on my way. Bashir out."  
  
He quickly wiped his mouth and stood. "I'm sorry, I have to run, Garak -"  
  
"Of course, Doctor. Duty calls." Garak nodded. "Perhaps we can meet later in the week?"  
  
"I'm free for lunch tomorrow, if that would suit you," said Julian. "I'll be especially interested in your views of the play I've asked you to read. I think it will be very much to your liking, and it is by one of Earth's most revered authors."  
  
"I'm looking forward to discussing it with you. Good day, Doctor."  
  
Garak watched Julian stride swiftly toward one of the turbolifts, reflecting that he was not at all sure that that he'd enjoy the newest work Bashir had pressed upon him. He'd had occasion to read this 'William Shakespeare' before and had been decidedly underwhelmed. But the discussion itself promised to be its usual delightful mix of protestations, incredulity and impassioned defense from the good doctor. All of that was well worth a few hours of tedium.  
  
Though he was intrigued by the description of the work as the chronicle of a supreme military commander who was improbably betrayed. Garak reckoned it _would_ have to be improbable, if a so-called "supreme" military commander could be fooled in such a manner. Though Garak understood this was a _Human_ , so he couldn't really make very many assumptions.  
  
Garak went to drain the rest of his rokassa juice when a slight twinkle at the edge of his vision caught his attention. Putting the cup down, he moved aside Bashir's hastily crumpled napkin and saw the Golian bracelet lying innocently there partly concealed by the napkin and the doctor's abandoned plate.

Garak blinked at it. Obviously Bashir wasn't so attached to his "good luck charm" if he could forget it and leave it behind, though the doctor could be very one-track minded at times, especially when it came to his duties.  
  
He picked up the bangle, marveling at how heavy and warm it felt - not at all what he was expecting from such a cool-looking metal. He half-rose, intent on going to the Infirmary to reunite Julian with his lost trinket, but after a second of thought, sat down again. The young doctor was likely up to his elbows - literally - in a delicate procedure and would not welcome any interruption.  
  
A small, sly grin lit up the gray face as he fingered the metallic bracelet. Garak wondered just how Julian would get along without his supposed "lucky charm" for a day. If he had his guess, nothing bad or odd would happen to the naive young man. He'd probably not even notice any change at all.

Garak chuckled to himself, murmuring "Lucky charm indeed!" before slipping the manacle into the pocket of his tunic. He finished his drink and walked out of the Replimat humming softly.

* * *

Garak was in a very bad humor as he stormed along the upper level of the Promenade. The day had barely started, yet a small, but insistent headache was already taking up residence behind his eyeridges. Oh, he'd slept well enough, but it had all been downhill from there.  
  
The night before, he'd been in Quark's drinking overpriced, average kanar when he'd overheard the Ferengi mention to Morn that he had his eye on a space for that massage parlor he'd long been wanting to open. The Benzite who currently occupied the space apparently had enough of the shopkeeper's life and wanted to return home. As a result of this intelligence, Garak awoken earlier than was his custom for the distinct purpose of speaking to the man to gauge if he'd be open to a bid from _him_ for the space. It was not as ideal as the space the Golian girl had snatched from under his nose, but Garak reckoned that beggars could not be choosers. Also, it was _very_ unlikely that Quark would be able to secure the proper permits for a "full service" parlor, and the Ferengi had given a disturbing leer when he said he planned his massage idyll to be " _very_ full service."  
  
However, the Benzite had dashed Garak's hopes, saying that he was not sure that he was going to leave DS9 after all, prompting Garak to surmise that the man was either angling for a larger price for his shop or was not much enamored of Cardassians despite the almost overdone politeness that seemed to be a hallmark of Benzites. At any rate, there had been nothing that could be done for it except to thank the man for his time, wish him well in whatever he decided, and reiterate that if he were interested in giving up his spot, Garak would be more than willing to give him a good price.

Rubbing the stretch of skin between his eyes, Garak slowly headed to the Replimat, intent on a mug of red-leaf tea to ease his headache and prepare for a busy day ahead. There was much in his shop that he needed to complete that morning before his lunch with the doctor to discuss this so-called Earth _masterwork_.  
  
Garak shook his head in bemusement. Such a transparent little story, this _Julius Caesar_ had been. Nearly a millennium had passed since this Shakespeare had lived, and this was still accounted among the very best of Human literature? He was, however, eager to hear the doctor's defense of the work. _That_ would be endlessly more entertaining than the story itself had been -  
  
"- Oof!"

His breath left him as he was nearly thrown against a column. The dark, stolid figure rushed that had knocked into him rushed past without stopping or even acknowledging his rudeness. Garak glared after the retreating figure, feeling his headache sharpen. By the cut of the clothing and the shaggy fur at the back of the neck, Garak could tell it was a Surelian - boorish creatures boasting enormous brute strength. They made Klingons look mild-mannered poets.  
  
Rubbing his sore hip, Garak straightened, noticing something glinting at his feet. He realized that it was Dr. Bashir's bracelet, which he'd carried along to return to Julian at their lunch. He blinked in surprise at the appearance of it, but surmised that it must have fallen out of the pocket of his tunic when the Surelian had bumped into him. Garak rubbed his hip again, cursing the Surelian oaf and bent to pick up the bangle. Weighing it in his palm, he noted that it was still oddly warm, and almost pliable.  
  
The Cardassian glared at it with a critical eye. Just a plain circlet of metal. Not the remotest bit of artistry in it. He didn't know much about Golians as a species, but he felt safe in assuming that accessorizing was not their strong suit.

He was sliding the manacle back into his pocket just as a clamor arose from the lower level of the habitat ring. Leaning over the railing, he watched dozens of newly arrived travelers spill out from an open airlock. Generally the sight of so many newly arrived visitors would have been an exciting and possibly lucrative prosepct, but taking note of the crowd, he couldn't see any that would necessarily avail themselves of his services, though a few dozen were in pretty desperate need of a good tailor.  
  
Garak was about to turn away when a lone figure caught his attention. Squinting and leaning a little farther forward, he focused on the person, who was moving unhurriedly, quite alone.

It was a Flaxian.

Garak had thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but there was no mistaking the highly segmented face, ornamented hair, and delicate, almost ceremonial gait.  
  
 _How very curious._

He eyed the Flaxian as he picked his way through the crowd, earning several looks of astonishment and some of outright hostility from Bajoran visitors. It stood to reason: Flaxians had been a fixture on Bajor during the Occupation, bringing with them goods and services much prized among Cardassians.  
  
But since the Occupation had ended, Flaxians had largely disappeared from this area of the quadrant. Like Koberians, Mathenites, Re'tuvians and other species that traded freely with the Cardassian Union, the sale of their goods had been prohibited in Bajoran space.

The Flaxian wore a simple traveling cloak and carried a pyramidal case of some sort. He looked the part of an ordinary merchant - a merchant on the wrong end of the Alpha Quadrant.  
  
With the light step and keen eye of long training, Garak followed the Flaxian as he swept down the corridors toward the Promenade. His mind whirred with the possibilities. It was possible that Quark, who was anything but politically correct when it came to his business practices, had invited the man here to do some sort of business. But if that were so, the Flaxian likely would not be brazenly displaying himself this way, knowing that his presence would rile many of the inhabitants of the space station. Of course, there was the chance that the Flaxian had come on some form of transport whose end destination was the station and was killing time until his connecting shuttle left. But left for where? The Cardassian border? Not likely. Bajor? Of course not.  
  
The Flaxian was headed more or less straight toward Quark's, and Garak relaxed somewhat, feeling that his first guess had been correct. Maybe this wasn't even a new venture for Quark - the Ferengi had been on the station well into the Occupation, and it was possible that he and this Flaxian had some "unfinished business" to attend to.

That train of thought broke off when he saw the Flaxian take a padd from the folds of his cloak, study it intensely for a second or two and look around.  
  
With narrowing eyes, Garak marked how the Flaxian was slowing down while still looking all around him. Quark's was dead-ahead and there was no mistaking it, so that could not have been the cause for his sudden deceleration. A growing unease gnawed at Garak's stomach when the Flaxian, after consulting the padd again, stopped abruptly and made a sharp turn, disappearing from view. Alarmed now, Garak hurried to the other side of the curve where he could view the lower level of the Promenade unobstructed. When he got to the other side, his mouth went dry. There was the Flaxian, not moving at all, standing in front of a shop.  
  
Standing in front of _hi_ _s_ shop.  
  
Garak wasn't even conscious that he was holding his breath, but his blood pounded in his ears as he watched the man again glance at the padd, then at the shop and nod with apparent satisfaction. He saw, too, that the Flaxian's hand tightened ever-so-slightly around the case he was holding. He appeared to peer into the window before looking quickly around and resuming his walk to Quark's, where he soon disappeared in the swell of the crowd.  
  
Garak watched him go, a different set of possibilities whirring in his brain. His mind went full-click, taking him back years in the past, to an assignment on Romulus. A Flaxian of his acquaintance had proved most illuminating about his race - their remarkable olfactory senses, especially. He'd told Garak that a Flaxian, all of whom looked largely the same, even the females of the species, could tell their mate and family members apart from others simply by scent. Their merchants dealt mainly in the heady, floral, spicy perfumes for which their world was known.

And their assassins dealt in scent, too - of a very different sort.  
  
Garak let his breath out slowly, and almost without thinking, went for the stairs to take him to the lower level. He kept his eyes open, but saw no sign of the Flaxian. Approaching his shop carefully, he could see no odd devices near his front door, and he didn't notice any strange smells in the vicinity. Glancing over his shoulder in the direction of Quark's, he quickly punched in his security code and once inside, softly called for the computer to lock the doors and put out a low-level scanning field using one of the few Cardassian access codes that still worked for him. It wasn't anything fancy, but it would alert him to any "visitors" well before they crossed his threshold.  
  
Then he went into his storeroom, ordered a cup of red-leaf tea from the replicator, and sat down on his workbench to think.

* * *

Three cups of tea later, Garak's headache was gone, his eyes were bright and his mind was clear. He'd gotten most of the pieces of the puzzle put together, though some of the details were still a bit murky.  
  
To start with, the Flaxian was obviously there to kill him. There could be no other plausible excuse or explanation. Further, Garak surmised that the assassin had plans to dispatch him rather quickly. The appearance of a Flaxian on the station wouldn't go unnoticed for very long, after all. Also, a quick kill was a Flaxian hallmark - much more efficient and elegant that way.  
  
The reason for this sudden death sentence was a slight cause for speculation. Garak could only guess that it had something to do with that bizarre adventure on Cardassia Prime a few months back with Major Kira and the now exiled and disgraced former Legate Tekeny Ghemor. Once that mission was completed, Garak noticed that a lot of his "contacts" on Cardassia had gone silent on him. He'd half-expected that; the moment that Commander Sisko had insisted that he accompany them on the mission, Garak knew that his eyes and ears on his homeworld would soon realize he'd had as large a role as anyone of thwarting the Obsidian Order's plans to destroy Ghemor's career and the Cardassian dissident movement along with it.

Was that it, then? He was to be destroyed because he'd interfered in Ghemor's pending humiliation? Or had Entek really been so well-connected that the Order was seeking to avenge his murder?  
  
Garak's thoughts touched briefly on Tain. True, he had retired from the Order some time ago, but only a fool could think that he didn't still know everything that went on inside the organization. His spine prickled at the idea that not only might Tain have known about a plot to eliminate him, but might also have sanctioned it.  
  
Thinking on it more, Garak dismissed the notion somewhat uneasily. Tain had despised Entek as much as anyone and likely would have killed him himself if he'd had the chance. Also, Tain could have had him assassinated long before now. He had not done so, and Garak knew why; the old man wanted him to suffer, to grow aged and lonely on this space station far from the comforts of his homeland. _That_ was a fate worst than death, and Tain knew it. Further, Tain knew that _he_ knew it.  
  
Garak understood that he could spend time in supposition, but it didn't really matter. The fact of it was, there was a being meters away who had journeyed here to kill him. Something _definitely_ had to be done about that.  
  
He peered out from the darkened area of his storeroom. There had been a few visitors, some clearly puzzled about why the shop was closed so late in the day. Garak knew that wouldn't hold. The Flaxian would likely be back soon and grow suspicious, as well. Garak considered for a brief moment confiding in Julian, but abandoned that thought almost immediately. The doctor could be amazingly credulous at times, but Garak could admit that this story might be a bit hard for even Julian to swallow.

Pursing his lips in concentration, Garak's mind turned to Mr. Law and Order himself, the great Constable Odo. If he craned his neck just so, he could see the approach to the security chief's office. It would be nothing to stroll in there and report a ... a ...  
  
Garak stopped. Report a _what_? A yet-to-be-carried-out attempt on his life? What proof did he have? Flaxian assassins didn't exactly carry calling cards - not ones that people could live to tell about, anyway.

And, anyway, suppose he _did_ tell Odo? It probably wouldn't do much good. One of two things was likely to happen: He would be dismissed out of hand because of lack of evidence or simply because the Constable did not care for him, personally. Or, Odo would take the complaint somewhat seriously, investigate, find nothing, because Flaxians were notoriously clever, and be forced to let the man go on his way. And after all that, the Order would simply send a less conspicuous figure the next time.  
  
Garak shook his head impatiently. How vexing it was to be the lone Cardassian in a place where the majority of the residents disliked or distrusted him! If it were anyone else, Garak was sure Odo would take such a complaint seriously, if only to put the person at ease. But for _him_ , he'd have to be already dead or nearly so for the _good_ constable to take any notice!  
  
His eyes suddenly went wide at that thought.  
  
A small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. How odd a thing was timing! If this had been, oh, three years ago or so, he might have had a much different view of things. He might have been flattered that the Order would choose such an exotic way of disposing of him. He might have even welcomed an end to the freakish half-life that his exile had reduced him to. But that was all _before_. Before the end of the Occupation, before Starfleet, before a certain long-limbed, honey-eyed doctor had come tripping into his life ...  
  
He took a breath. Yes, timing certainly was odd, indeed. By this time, he was usually open for business. Had he been, he had no doubt that the Flaxian would have already executed his design. But for his fruitless visit to the Benzite and the oafish Surelian who'd nearly run him down, he might not have ever seen the Flaxian arrive at all.  
  
A strange weight pressed against his thigh, startling Garak out of his thoughts for a moment. Brushing his hand over the spot, he felt the lump in his tunic, plunged his hand in and came out with the Golian manacle. It glowed dully in the muted light of the storeroom, and the strange warmth of the metal spread through his hand, making his scales tremble a little.

He blinked down at it, his throat growing dry.  
  
"Now, Elim, this is no time for indulging in foolish fancies," he muttered. "There's work to be done."  
  
He went into the depths of his storeroom for his toolkit and some other odds and ends, absently sliding the bracelet back into his pocket.

* * *

A fine trickle of sweat snaked down Garak's cheek as he labored with the circuitry behind a bulkhead in the front of his shop. He had not been commed, so either no one had noticed that the shop had not yet opened or, probably more likely: no one had cared. It was all the same to him, though he did feel a slight pique to not have heard anything from Julian. Perhaps it was just extremely busy in the Infirmary that day.  
  
He'd also not heard anything from his Flaxian friend. There _had_ been a tense moment when, realizing that much of what he needed was in his private quarters, Garak had made the decision to risk leaving the relative safety of his shop to retrieve the items. He'd not seen - or smelled - any sign of the Flaxian either on the Promenade or in the habitat ring, and he was able to snag the items and return without incident. It occurred to him that like much of the galaxy, Flaxians were infatuated with dabo and it was possible that the man was wiling away his time in Quark's at the dabo tables, in the company of lovely women and carafes of Romulan ale, sure that his quarry remained ignorant of his existence. How very wrong he was.  
  
Connecting a set of wires, Garak frowned thoughtfully. It was a little strange that the Order would send such a lax assassin after him. He wasn't sure whether to be offended or truly saddened of the state of the agency since Tain's retirement. _If_ he were still running things and _if_ he'd wanted him killed, Tain certainly wouldn't have sent a gambling degenerate to dispatch him. Perhaps the Detapa Council had cut the Order's budget again.  
  
The tailor moved as quickly as he was able through his task. It required absolute precision and a steady hand. One misstep, and the Flaxian would have accomplished his goal without actually having done anything to earn it. Yet, he couldn't dawdle. A losing streak at the dabo tables might have the Flaxian tapping at his door earlier than he wished.

Ah, well, he was almost finished, anyway. Garak gave a silent thanks to the Flaxian acquaintance he'd met during that mission on Romulus for imparting such useful information about his species' special "toys." The man had been most diverting; it really was too bad that he'd had to cut his throat.  
  
The memory of that long-ago assignment on Romulus turned Garak's mind back to Tain. Before he'd taken up the task at hand, he'd entertained the thought of contacting the spymaster to try to ascertain how his circumstances could have so drastically changed.

But having a heart-to-heart chat was not something he'd very seriously considered. For one thing, if, somehow, Tain _did_ have a hand in all of this, contacting the old man while the Flaxian was still on the station would alert Tain that his old colleague was - to choose the charming Human vernacular - "on to him." And that wouldn't do at all.

Additionally, Tain's direct comm code had changed numerous times since he'd exiled him, and Garak knew that if he were to contact him now, Tain would know _exactly_ who had given him the new codes. Mila had enough to worry about now that Tain was retired. Garak didn't want to add to her problems.  
  
When he screwed the paneling back into place after several hours' labor, he felt strangely giddy. There was more to the feeling than just the desire to beat the Flaxian at his own game. If his calculations were correct - and they'd better be - the result would be complete and utter devastation. Hardly anything would be left standing.  
  
His eyes swept the interior of his shop and the lighthearted feeling intensified. What _would_ it be like to see Garak's Clothiers go up in smoke? To see the trappings of a mundane and lonely existence obliterated in the blink of an eye? Garak knew that he wouldn't have very long to find out. If he had to take a guess, however, he would say "utter bliss."  
  
Carefully backing away from the replaced panel, Garak glanced over his shoulder toward Quark's as soon as he'd exited his shop. Still nothing. Standing slightly in shadow, Garak removed a padd from the folds of his tunic and deftly punched a series of codes into it. The display screen lit up briefly and then went dark. Searching out the nearest matter reclamation unit, Garak rubbed the padd on his tunic a few times before shoving it into the system, bidding it a farewell on its way to becoming just another bit of galactic waste.  
  
Garak looked again at his shop. So it was done. The die truly was cast now. With the padd gone, he had no way to stop what was to be, even if he wanted to.

Shaking his head in slight bemusement, Garak checked his chrono and did a double-take. The morning truly had flown by. It was well into afternoon and he was already late for lunch with the doctor.

* * *

As he descended the stairs toward his shop, Garak's mind still roiled with the conversation he'd had with Bashir over lunch. He was conscious that he'd been a bit more animated in his derision of the work than was his custom, but the more he had thought about it, the more the whole plot of the play had seemed absolutely ludicrous. Not just that a supposed military "genius" would be so dense as to not see the most obvious of coups unfold under his nose, but in this fanciful tale, the character Mark Antony was considered the hero. It was so very apparent that Antony would have plunged the knife in Caesar's back himself if he'd had what Humans called "gumption." He was as eager for advancement as the "villain" Cassius, but at least Cassius had not disguised his ambition. Garak dismissed Brutus as almost unworthy of comment. He had just been an easily led fool, that was all.  
  
Garak was conscious that as he'd talked - and as Bashir had bolted his meal - thoughts of Tain had flitted unbidden across his mind. It made him uncomfortable. This sort of operation was not at all Tain's style, and yet he couldn't quite shake the sense that he was missing something. He'd simply taken it for granted that if Tain had wanted him dead, he would have done so long ago, but there was a small voice in the back of his head that whispered that Tain was known to change his mind on a whim.

But engaging a Flaxian to do the deed? Such a step was flashy to the point of vulgarity, and while Enabran Tain was many things, _vulgar_ was not one of them. Not in that sense, anyway.  
  
Garak tensed as he approached his doorway. There was no sign of the Flaxian as he entered his access code and slipped back into his darkened shop. Every nerve ending in his body was firing wildly, and his palms were beginning to become moist and clammy. He was not afraid, but he was nervous. All the damned waiting!  
  
Reaching into his tunic pocket for a handkerchief, his fingers brushed something smooth and hard. Momentarily confused, Garak drew out the object and cursed aloud. He'd meant to return the damned bracelet to Bashir at lunch but had been distracted by their discussion of that mediocre dramatic work.

Garak wavered a second. There might not be time to return the item to Julian later, if all went well. If all _didn't_ go well, there wouldn't be an item _to_ return.  
  
He recalled his promise of Delavian chocolates and decided that it might be best to drop them off along with the bangle and make up an excuse as to why he could not stop by later in the afternoon. Perhaps the doctor had finished talking with the Major and was in the Infirmary even now. No time like the present, then. He crossed over to a small chest beneath his main display. The package of chocolates was in a drawer where he kept his laser shears and several out-of-print patterns.

Garak entered the access code and withdrew the tiny packet of sweets, looking down at them in slight regret. Ah, well, easy come, easy -  
  
The explosion knocked him immediately on his face. He felt a sharp pain lance through his skull and thick smoke blanketed him in an acrid stench. Garak coughed weakly, rolling onto his back so that he could breathe better. His head lolled limply to the side and through the dim haze of smoke, he could see the effects of his handiwork.  
  
He'd been quite correct in his calculations - even through the smoke, he could see parts of his shop ablaze here and there, and heaps of rubble throughout. But something else caught his eye and he felt his throat constrict.

Several long, lethal-looking shards of a blown-out bulkhead had embedded themselves in the opposite wall. Gazing at the sight, it occurred to him that moments before, he'd been standing right in the path of the flying debris. If he hadn't decided to collect the chocolates when he had, those shards would have embedded themselves in Cardassian flesh and bone and not titanium girders. And he would never have seen them coming -  
  
There were shouts and footsteps close by, and Garak soon found himself blinking up into the concerned face of Dr. Bashir. The young man was in full chief medical officer mode and Garak found himself making a rather inferior joke about a pair of pants he was to finish for his young friend. The pain in his head was making conversation very unpleasant. Something hissed against his throat, and Garak smiled dreamily as the hypospray took the edge of the pain and drew a veil over his eyes. By the time two of Bashir's medical technicians had come to convey him to the Infirmary, Garak was on the very edge of sleep. He still gripped the packet of chocolates in his hand, and at his side, the manacle jangled rhythmically against his hip.

* * *

Garak stood in the shadows, watching a dark head bent over a padd, long graceful fingers lightly and restlessly tapping the surface. Broad but thin shoulders slightly rounded and accented by a band of teal.  
  
The tailor stood staring, mug clasped in his hand. It was very similar to the day he'd decided to introduce himself at last to the Starfleet doctor. Yes, the business with the Klingon sisters and the Bajoran terrorist had necessitated an introduction, but Garak had noticed the enticing Human from the moment he'd come on the station, and well before the events surrounding Tahna Los and the Duras sisters, Garak had watched the young man from a secure perch in the Replimat, assessing him. Ruminating. Dreaming, even.  
  
That all seemed like an age ago, but it had been only two years. And now he was doing it again, but for vastly different reasons.  
  
It had been three weeks since his and Odo's improbable return from the Gamma Quadrant. Three weeks since the aborted attempt on his life. Three weeks since the wholesale destruction of the Tal Shiar-Obsidian Order fleet by the Dominion. Three weeks since Tain ...  
  
Watching Julian, Garak swallowed hard, reflecting that as he'd faced almost certain death aboard the lead Romulan warbird, he had quoted a line from _Julius Caesar_ to Tain. He'd not had the opportunity to delve into it at the time, but thinking on it now, Garak realized that it was a line spoken by Cassius, the one character Garak could respect for his naked ambition and open hatred.

Did that make Tain Brutus, then? The noble warrior who played the fool?

Tain almost admitted as much in his reaction to the Lovok-Changeling's treachery, but Garak did not like to think on that. Despite everything, he did not want to remember Tain in that manner, and he couldn't deny that he had been prepared to meet death with Tain aboard the warbird and likely would have if Odo had not ... intervened.  
  
Garak pondered the change in dynamic between himself and the station's security chief. After what he'd put Odo through aboard the warbird, the subtle invitation of friendship the Changeling had offered him was somewhat baffling. What baffled Garak even more was the growing suspicion that just as he had left out Odo's "confession" from his report of the mission, Odo, too, seemed to have made some creative "omissions" of his own - specifically much of the torture he'd undergone.  
  
Garak couldn't reconcile the behavior of certain members of the Starfleet crew otherwise. Major Kira, who often went out of her way to interact as little as possible with him, was giving him almost friendly acknowledgment, as was Chief O'Brien. Lt. Dax had already expressed interest in being fitted for a ballgown in the new K'teva wrap style, and even Commander Sisko, when approving his permit to rebuild and operate his shop on the Promenade, had mentioned that he had a great number of dress pants in dire need of alteration. Several members of the Promenade's merchants' association had offered their goodwill, and even Quark seemed to not mind much that his dreams of an Argellian massage facility were to be thwarted yet again.  
  
But the one person from whom he had heard nothing at all was sitting at a solitary table with a rapidly cooling beverage at his elbow.

Garak's first thought at the doctor's silence was that he'd read his report and Odo's, and perhaps sensing that the two followed each other a bit _too_ closely, had gone to the Constable for more substantial answers.  
  
While Bashir's colleagues might view his actions as those of a person triumphing over his baser nature - eventually - Garak could imagine Julian being angered and disillusioned to learn of his treatment of Odo, despite their eventual escape and despite the knowledge that if left to Tain, the Romulans would have "interrogated" Odo, and the Lovok-Changeling might have allowed them to inflict much more damage in order to avoid blowing his cover before the strike on the Founders' planet could be engaged.  
  
Garak sighed softly. He had failed in his promise to Mila. Tain was gone, and with him went any chance at all that he would ever see Cardassia again.

And yet, if the doctor no longer wished to associate with him, Garak felt the irrevocable loss of his homeworld would be the least of his troubles.  
  
He surfaced from his musings to see a line of diners entering the Replimat and glancing at him with puzzled looks. Silently chiding himself for standing around gaping like and idiot, Garak straightened his back and decided to attack the issue head on. Simply _knowing_ where things stood would be better than all the senseless back-and-forth in his head.  
  
Garak strode quickly and soundlessly to Julian's table, noting that the doctor did not look up at his approach. He was fully absorbed in whatever it was he was reading on his padd, and Garak soon was at his side, staring down at the bent head for several seconds in silence.  
  
"Tarkalean tea, Doctor?"  
  
Garak wanted to appear as nonchalant as he was able, but he could not help the thud of his heart as the head snapped up and he saw the wide smile and look of real pleasure in those remarkable eyes.  
  
"Garak!" Julian's smile grew, and his fingers curled reflexively around his mug. "Yes, it's my usual. And ... rokassa juice for you?"  
  
"I'm rather surprised that the scent did not precede me." The Cardassian allowed the merest of smiles to curve his lips. "I just popped in for light refreshment and noticed you here. Forgive me if I interrupted you in some important task."

Garak kept his voice light as he gave Bashir a plausible excuse to dismiss him. The doctor shook his head and put the padd aside with a sigh.  
  
"I'm doing some research for a talk I have to give at Starfleet Medical on the evolution of Jenari retroviruses. It's been pretty dry reading, so far. My eyes are beginning to glaze over. Do you have a moment?"  
  
Garak felt the tension leave his shoulders. He had more than a moment that could be spent with Julian Bashir. He had an entire lifetime, in fact.

He flushed almost imperceptibly, a bit vexed that such a ridiculously maudlin sentiment had entered his brain, but Garak wondered what it _would_ be like to fling the words at the beautiful Human and watch those lovely eyes widen even more.  
  
"A moment," he said agreeably, as he took the seat opposite. "I was just thinking, Doctor, that it doesn't seem that it has almost been a Standard month since our return from the Gamma Quadrant on the Defiant."  
  
"Yes, the time has flown. I assume it's because we've both been busy," said Julian. "How is the reconstruction of the shop coming?"  
  
"Quite well. I estimate being open again for business within five Standard weeks."  
  
"So soon?" Julian looked astonished. "The damage to the shop was pretty extensive. I thought it might be longer than that."  
  
"Ah, well, in addition to being very careful eaters, Talarians are also formidable workers," said Garak, taking a sip of his juice. "And quite efficient, as well."  
  
"And I suppose it helps that they don't require sleep," said Julian with a small grin. "Well, I'm happy to know that you will be back in business soon. I _do_ have another pair of duty slacks that need tending to. Admiral Carlyle will be visiting the station soon and Sisko wants the senior staff to apply the spit-and-polish."  
  
Garak blinked. _Spit-and-polish ...?_ Doubtless another charming "Humanism" - one he didn't want to study too closely.

"I'm assuming the Admiral is not traveling all this way just to sample Bajoran spring wine?"  
  
"Not exactly." Bashir's face was grim. "The Dominion is lying low for now, probably wanting what happened to the Obsidian Order and the Tal Shiar to sink in around the quadrant. But we can't be sure that they won't become more enterprising and stage a strike of their own."  
  
"Hmmm." Garak mused on what the Lovok-Changeling had said before abandoning the warbird - that the only threats to the Dominion in the Alpha Quadrant were the Klingons and the Federation and he doubted they'd be a threat for much longer.

"It's quite possible your Admiral is right. Though the Dominion does not need time to let their victory 'sink in.' There have already been repercussions on Romulus and Cardassia Prime, according to my sources."  
  
"What do you mean? What sort of repercussions?"  
  
Garak paused for another sip of juice. Apparently, after word had gotten back to Cardassia Prime that _he_ had been with Tain on the ill-fated mission and had survived, he'd gotten back into the good graces of the contacts who'd forsaken him after the Ghemor business. He supposed they'd figured that whatever his other shortcomings, it was more prudent to have on their side someone who had cheated death not once, but _three_ times in a relatively short time span.  
  
"Well, the Tal Shiar who did not go offworld with the fleet were hit with heavy reprisals by the Romulan Senate. Some of the more well-connected were simply stripped of rank and status. Those with a bit less clout, however, now have a bit less _head_ to go along with it."  
  
Julian shuddered. "And on Cardassia?"  
  
"Ah. There were some in the Order who gave Tain their unilateral support but declined to join the fleet. Those individuals apparently had quite pressing business on planets that, interestingly enough, are located just outside Cardassian space." Garak's eyes glittered. "Perhaps not surprisingly, these individuals are _not_ rushing to book shuttle passage back to Cardassia Prime. Those unfortunates who did not have that same prescience have either gone into hiding or have been jailed for subsequent execution as traitors to the state."  
  
"Traitors?" Julian's brow creased. "Well that's convenient. Starfleet said that both Central Command and the Romulan government denied any knowledge of Tain's plan, but it was pretty clear that if the strike had succeeded, those 'traitors' would have been welcomed back as heroes."  
  
Garak said nothing for a moment, contemplating the bottom of his mug. He couldn't speak for the Romulans, but he was quite sure that even if the plan had succeeded, Tain wouldn't have been hailed as a "hero." Cardassia would have welcomed him back because there would not have been any choice in the matter, and he would have wielded a great deal more power than he'd ever done as head of the Order, but that was hardly the same thing.  
  
"Yes, well, it was quite an ordeal for everyone involved."  
  
"I suppose. Though it came the nearest in the world to succeeding. Starfleet thought there was a chance the plan would go off as designed," said Bashir. "There is a Human saying - Fortune favors the bold. I don't like the idea of fortune being on the side of the Dominion."  
  
That jolted Garak to attention, and he at once registered the heavy weight in one of the side pockets of his tunic. Patting the area, he fixed Julian with a small grin.  
  
"Speaking of that, Doctor, I have something of yours that I've been meaning to return."  
  
He drew out the bracelet and placed it gently on the table. He saw Julian's expression change from one of puzzlement to recognition and then outright astonishment.  
  
"The tryl manacle!" Julian gazed at him in confusion. "I'd been wondering where it had gone to. How did _you_ get it?"  
  
"You left it behind that afternoon that you were called away from our meal to perform a rather important surgery on one of your colleagues," said Garak, looking down at the solid tube of metal. "I had meant to return it to you the next day but was sidetracked by our discussion of your _Julius Caesar_. Afterward, the item simply slipped my mind for reasons that I'm sure I don't have to explain. I did think of it on the way to the Unethra system, but by the time I'd realized I still had it, it was a bit too late to turn back."  
  
He smiled blandly at the doctor. "I do apologize if you've experienced a run of _bad luck_ in its absence."  
  
Julian picked the manacle up, turning it over in his hand. "You may laugh, Garak, but I _did_ run into an unlucky streak, now that I think about it."  
  
"Of course." Garak's tone was dry.  
  
"It's true!" Julian sounded indignant. "And thinking back on it, it began almost immediately after that afternoon. Your shop exploding ... the business with the Flaxian ... not hearing any news of you and Odo for so long ... having to take the Defiant into the Gamma Quadrant to rescue the two of you -"  
  
"You're quite right, Doctor - an awful spate of misfortunes." He smiled brightly at Julian's dark glare. "After all you've gone through, you must be relieved to have it back."  
  
"Well ... not exactly," said Julian, exhaling loudly, "considering that Fara and I have decided to stop seeing each other."  
  
Garak halted in mid-swallow. Gulping a little, he regarded the doctor's slightly forlorn expression.

"Oh?" was all he could trust himself to say.  
  
"She's decided to go back to Golus and continue her studies. After the explosion, she began to think that her destiny was not on Deep Space Nine after all. Golians are big on fate, destiny and luck. She said that your shop being destroyed made her rethink her plans."  
  
The tailor nodded thoughtfully. So Odo had either omitted or massaged the minor detail that he'd rigged the destruction of his own shop. The doctor would not be calmly telling him these things if the blast was in part responsible for the dissolution of his relationship.

Garak could agree with the girl that her destiny was _not_ on the space station or in the form of a tall, striking Human doctor. Maybe in his pique that she'd stolen the space right out from under him, he'd underestimated her intelligence and insight.  
  
He glanced up and was surprised and a great deal unnerved to see the young man staring at him slack-jawed, an odd light in his large eyes.  
  
Garak raised a wary eyeridge. "Yes, Doctor?"  
  
"You had this with you in the Gamma Quadrant!" Julian's cheeks were pink with excitement. "And _you_ had an amazing streak of luck!"  
  
Garak rolled his eyes. "Dr. Bashir, really -"  
  
"I'm serious! Escaping the warbird before its likely destruction, and then escaping the runabout before _it_ was blasted into particles. What else would you call that?"  
  
"I would call the first example unremarkable," said Garak, "considering that the Lovok-Changeling was aboard the vessel and the Jem'Hadar would not have destroyed the warbird until he had safely disembarked. He also likely gave orders to allow Odo free passage in the runabout, but in all the confusion, perhaps his orders were ... misinterpreted."  
  
"Uh-huh. And what about the Defiant arriving just in time to save you? Was that also an _unremarkable_ example?"  
  
"Not at all," said Garak with a blinding smile. "It was a testament to a well-trained crew and finely-tuned warp engines, in addition to quite adequate cloaking technology. _Not_ luck."  
  
Julian chuckled lightly, affectionate exasperation glowing in his eyes. "Call it whatever you wish. I'm just happy that you returned safely, whatever the reason behind it."  
  
The warmth in Bashir's voice made Garak's cheeks burn, and he lowered his eyes briefly.

"Thank you, Doctor. The feeling is _very_ mutual."  
  
Julian stood up and gave a discreet stretch. "I have to be going; I have a meeting of my staff in 15 minutes. I'm glad we ran into each other. I had been wanting to comm you, but I thought it might be better to not disturb you when you still have so much to do."  
  
"I appreciate your solicitude, Doctor, but my schedule is as open as ever it was, and I have missed our chats." Garak looked up at him. "In fact, that reminds me of an occurrence that I _may_ have to admit is owed to luck after all."  
  
"Yes?" Julian's voice was eager. "What is it?"  
  
"In all the ... excitement, I never did get to sample the chocolates you were so thoughtful to give me before my departure to the Gamma Quadrant," Garak said. "And I _do_ believe I promised you a piece or two. Perhaps an afternoon snack later today?"  
  
Julian flashed a smile that Garak felt down in his toe scales.

"Stop by the Infirmary around 1600. I think I'll be able to use a pick-me-up then, and that would more than fit the bill."  
  
"For me as well." Garak inclined his head. "Until then, Doctor."  
  
Garak watched Julian disappear into a turbolift, and he breathed a tired, but contented, sigh. He was conscious that things were not entirely "back to normal." His shop was still closed, the most unexpected residents of the station were being passably civil to him, and he had an assignation to nibble Delavian chocolates with one Dr. Julian Bashir.

So, no, things were decidedly _not_ back to normal.  
  
They were _better_.  
  
His hand absently brushed the pocket where the manacle had rested for so long. Chewing his lip thoughtfully, Garak wondered if it might not be a good idea to visit the Golian woman's shop and wish her a pleasant journey home, and perhaps even inquire if she had any more of those manacles for sale. Not that he believed in such superstitious nonsense, of course, but considering all that he'd gone through, experienced and survived with that damned thing at his side, having one of his very own couldn't hurt.  
  
end


End file.
